Fussing
by claraoswelve
Summary: Tumblr Whouffaldi Prompt: The Doctor gets sick/hurt and is being extremely difficult but Clara still takes care of him and eventually he warms up to it


"Clara, you really need to stop your fussing."

"I will _not _stop my fussing."

He was stumbling. The Doctor never stumbled. Even when he was weak, tired, or sometimes injured, he kept a proud demeanor. Kept himself straight. Kept himself indignant.

But now, he was tripping over his own two feet. His pallor was more than frightening. Clara was surprised he was managing to even keep up the arguments. If only he'd just admit he was ill.

Every time she tried to grab his hand to steady him, he jerked away. Any comforting gesture with her hand on his shoulder was shrugged off with a growl of frustration, and an _I don't need your help, Clara _on repeat.

"I can take care of myself." He muttered, trying to work his way down the corridor but having to pause for a breath, leaning sideways against the wall. "Not that there's anything to... to take care of." He protested, out of breath. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Doctor." The word was drawn out, accompanied by a long grumble. "Please. Just come with me and lay down for a few minutes. _Just _a few minutes. Please." Clara tugged lightly on his hand, but to no surprise on her end, he pulled away. Frowning she moved in front of him to grip his jacket to hold him steady while she rested the back of her hand against his cheek. "You're warm. You're never warm." She dropped her hand. "Just admit that you're sick!"

The Doctor didn't reply. His gaze was fixed blankly ahead, his eyelids opening and closing rapidly on repeat. He shook his head to clear it, only to wince in the aftermath and hunch over slightly to clutch his head.

"I don't want a word out of you." Clara grumbled, using his moment of weakness and inability to fight back to work her way back to his side, wrap an arm around his waist, and begin helping him to the bedroom.

"Yes ma'am." He chuckled, dazed as he _finally _allowed her to lead him on.

It took considerably longer than Clara would have liked to make it to his bedroom, (which was inconveniently on the far side of the corridor). The Doctor had long since given up on protesting. Maybe he wouldn't admit that he needed help, but he was done saying that he _didn't _need it either. Sometimes, Clara found the urge to smack him almost unbearable. He was such a stubborn prat and it made her so angry.

"Talk to me." She pleaded, hands on his shoulders once she'd eased him down onto the bed. His eyelids were fluttering, like he was trying to prevent them from closing. Clara noticed that his hands were shaking too, and his ashen face made him look like a ghost. "What's wrong with you?" She was prepared for another comment about being perfectly fine, but it never came.

"Bit of a virus is all." He explained with a pained encouraging smile, finally giving up on keeping his eyes open. "I'll be fine in... in a day or so." His head swung with disorientation from side to side. He looked like he was about to collapse.

"So its not dangerous, then?" Clara could detect the relief in her own voice. She'd been actually, very much properly frightened. "You'll be okay?" His only reply was a sullen nod. "Okay." She sighed, closing her eyes briefly before setting to work. She released the buttons on his jacket and slowly, painfully, and with several frustrated murmurs managed to slide it off his shoulders. When her hands reached to unbutton the top of his shirt, he batted them away. "You're too hot." She informed him with a frown, giving a little nod of encouragement when he allowed her to resume the process. The top three buttons undone, she put her hand behind his head and began easing him backwards. "Lie down." She instructed.

"Just leave me alone." He pleaded hoarsely. "You don't need to do this, Clara."

"Of course I don't." She replied, quirking an eyebrow. "But I'm doing it anyway."

* * *

><p>It wasn't until the Doctor was visibly sleeping soundly that Clara felt comfortable with leaving his side. She wasn't gone long, just allowed herself to wander a bit. Play around with her thoughts. Let it truly <em>sink <em>_in _what was going on.

He was okay. She knew that. But the worry gripping her stomach simply refused to fade. She hated seeing him the way he was. So weak and fragile, instead of strong and heroic. She'd seen that man save hundreds of galaxies. And now he was in bed _with a bloody virus. _

Maybe it wouldn't be so difficult for her if he at least would accept her help. She was almost sure that his previous incarnation would have accepted her assistance, had he been in the safe situation. But this version of him wasn't just difficult because of his older face. He was so stubborn. So indignant. So _sure _that he didn't need anyone's help.

Half that man's face would be gone if Clara gave into her temptation to smack him even half of the time. She managed her self control, something she didn't previously know she had, and was glad too. Because with such a mule to look after, she was gonna need it.

Later that night, (or whatever time it was), the Doctor was actually managing a bit of coherence. His fever nearly broken, he wasn't nearly as delirious as he'd been just earlier that morning. Still though, he was stubborn.

"Your hands are cold!" He complained, swiping the appendage away every time it dared to come near his face.

"For god's sake." Clara grumbled, giving up with the roll of her eyes and the crossing of her arms. "If you won't even let me check your damned temperature, at least let me get you something to eat."

"I don't need anything to eat." He retorted.

Well, at least he was well enough to argue.

Was that an improvement?

She wasn't sure.

"Tea? Anything?"

"No." His hardened expression refrained her from continuing on.

"You are impossible." And with the sudden frustrated flail of her arms, Clara walked out.

The Doctor thought he might managed a few minutes of peace. Maybe even catch a nap. But when Clara returned just moments later, that oh so frightening expression on her face, he barely dared to speak.

She stomped up to his bedside and dropped a plate in his lap, two pieces of toast laid clumsily atop. "Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Do as you're told and eat."

"I don't want to."

"Doctor, do you want me to treat you like a child? Because I'm fine with that."

"Just leave me to suffer in peace!" He moaned dramatically, rolling onto his side and burying his face deep into his pillow.

"I could just slap you sometimes. You know that?"

"So you keep mentioning."

* * *

><p>Two days later. Not one, but two. He was cured.<p>

But _now, finally, _he was beginning to ask for things.

His fever was gone. He could talk properly again. No headache, no nausea, all symptoms were gone. And Clara knew that.

But the Doctor wasn't ready to give up the luxury just yet.

"Clara!" He called from his bed. He was always running. Always dashing from planet to planet, saving life after life. Sure he was allowed this at least once, wasn't he?

"What is it now?" She whined, sluggishly working her way into his room and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"I'm thirsty."

"Doctor, you're not sick anymore." She reminded him. "Get your own water."

"Please!" He let out a pitiful, fake cough. "I'm really not feeling well, Clara. Get me some water?"

Clara turned on the spot from where she'd been stomping out of the doorway. "You know what?" She smiled tiredly, but it was a sort of smirk. She raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Fine."

Should he be scared?

Maybe he should be scared.

Clara returned after barely any time had passed at all, glass of ice water in her hand. She kept her bright smile, dramatically stomping towards the cowering Doctor, and splashed the freezing liquid right on his face. "Next time," She said calmly, slamming the cup on the nightstand. "Get your own damn water."


End file.
